moment, sir,’ Jimmy said, left the car, and joined the crowd.
‘Any idea what’s happened?’ a puzzled Stahl said to Kiki.
She knew. ‘ Affiches blanches ,’ she said. ‘We’re in for it now.’
Stahl had no idea what she meant. White notices? At the Mairie, Jimmy was working his way towards the doors. ‘They must have just posted them,’ Kiki said. ‘Nobody at the party said a thing.’
‘“Them”? What are they?’
‘Mobilization notices,’ Kiki said. ‘Telling the men of Paris, telling men all over the country, that they must join their reserve units. Tomorrow . We’re at war, Monsieur Stahl.’ She found a cigarette and lit it, then threw the gold lighter angrily into her handbag. ‘So, that’s that,’ she said.
Jimmy came trotting back to the car. ‘Categories two and three,’ he said.
‘Not general?’ Kiki said.
‘No, mobilisation partiale – it’s in big letters.’ He got behind the wheel, then sat there. ‘I’m in category three, so I’ll be on the train at dawn, Monsieur Stahl. I’m very sorry, but I have to go and fight. I’m sure Zolly will find someone for you.’
‘Can you take us up to the party?’ Kiki said. ‘Later we’ll find a taxi.’
‘There won’t be any taxis,’ Jimmy said. ‘The drivers will be home, packing and saying goodbye.’
‘Then we’ll use the Métro, or we’ll walk,’ Kiki said. ‘And if they start bombing us, we’ll run.’
‘What sort of unit are you in, Jimmy?’ Stahl said.
‘Infantry,’ Jimmy said, and put the car in gear.
War came to the ‘ very different crowd’ that night, its long shadow sometimes a presence in the room, but the crowd fought back; defiant and merry and to hell with everything. They had the radio on, tuned to Radio Paris, the official state network, which played light classical music interrupted by news bulletins: mobilized men must report to their units in the east, extra trains would be running from the Gare de l’Est on the Boulevard de Strasbourg. And the government wished to emphasize that war had not been declared. ‘Yet!’ cried the party guests every time they heard the announcement. Of the thirty or so people crammed into an artist’s studio, four or five of the men had been mobilized. Somebody said, ‘We who are about to die salute you,’ and that set the wits among them to shouting every possible obscene variation on the phrase. It kept them busy, it kept them amused, it chased the doom away.
The party was on a barge, tied up to a wharf in a long line of working barges where the city of Paris bordered the industrial suburb of Boulogne-Billancourt. The host, a cheerful old gent in a paint-spattered shirt, had a huge tangled grey beard with a bread-crumb caught in the middle. He gave Kiki a powerful hug, put his arm around Stahl’s shoulders, and led them both around the room. He’d built himself a studio on the barge; removed some of the deck planking and installed a set of angled windows above the curve of the bow. So, with little space for hanging paintings, he’d used easels to display his work. Not Picasso, but not bad, in Stahl’s opinion. After the tour they found a place to sit, Stahl took off his jacket and tie and turned up the cuffs of his shirt, while Kiki slipped out of her embroidered jacket. ‘It’s from Schiaparelli,’ she told a woman who asked. Mildly abstract nudes seemed to be the artist’s favoured style. One of which, a few feet from where Stahl and Kiki sat – on a love seat obviously rescued from a fire – had a face Stahl recognized. There was Kiki de Saint-Ange, lying languorous and seductive on a sofa, a ‘Naked Maja’ that imitated the Goya painting. ‘I see you keep looking at that,’ she said, teasing him. ‘It’s not a bad likeness, though I seem to have been grey-green that afternoon.’
They called him ‘Fredric’, the men and women getting drunk together on strong, sour wine poured from ceramic jugs, smoking up the host’s hashish,
‘Any idea what’s happened?’ a puzzled Stahl said to Kiki.
She knew. ‘ Affiches blanches ,’ she said. ‘We’re in for it now.’
Stahl had no idea what she meant. White notices? At the Mairie, Jimmy was working his way towards the doors. ‘They must have just posted them,’ Kiki said. ‘Nobody at the party said a thing.’
‘“Them”? What are they?’
‘Mobilization notices,’ Kiki said. ‘Telling the men of Paris, telling men all over the country, that they must join their reserve units. Tomorrow . We’re at war, Monsieur Stahl.’ She found a cigarette and lit it, then threw the gold lighter angrily into her handbag. ‘So, that’s that,’ she said.
Jimmy came trotting back to the car. ‘Categories two and three,’ he said.
‘Not general?’ Kiki said.
‘No, mobilisation partiale – it’s in big letters.’ He got behind the wheel, then sat there. ‘I’m in category three, so I’ll be on the train at dawn, Monsieur Stahl. I’m very sorry, but I have to go and fight. I’m sure Zolly will find someone for you.’
‘Can you take us up to the party?’ Kiki said. ‘Later we’ll find a taxi.’
‘There won’t be any taxis,’ Jimmy said. ‘The drivers will be home, packing and saying goodbye.’
‘Then we’ll use the Métro, or we’ll walk,’ Kiki said. ‘And if they start bombing us, we’ll run.’
‘What sort of unit are you in, Jimmy?’ Stahl said.
‘Infantry,’ Jimmy said, and put the car in gear.
War came to the ‘ very different crowd’ that night, its long shadow sometimes a presence in the room, but the crowd fought back; defiant and merry and to hell with everything. They had the radio on, tuned to Radio Paris, the official state network, which played light classical music interrupted by news bulletins: mobilized men must report to their units in the east, extra trains would be running from the Gare de l’Est on the Boulevard de Strasbourg. And the government wished to emphasize that war had not been declared. ‘Yet!’ cried the party guests every time they heard the announcement. Of the thirty or so people crammed into an artist’s studio, four or five of the men had been mobilized. Somebody said, ‘We who are about to die salute you,’ and that set the wits among them to shouting every possible obscene variation on the phrase. It kept them busy, it kept them amused, it chased the doom away.
The party was on a barge, tied up to a wharf in a long line of working barges where the city of Paris bordered the industrial suburb of Boulogne-Billancourt. The host, a cheerful old gent in a paint-spattered shirt, had a huge tangled grey beard with a bread-crumb caught in the middle. He gave Kiki a powerful hug, put his arm around Stahl’s shoulders, and led them both around the room. He’d built himself a studio on the barge; removed some of the deck planking and installed a set of angled windows above the curve of the bow. So, with little space for hanging paintings, he’d used easels to display his work. Not Picasso, but not bad, in Stahl’s opinion. After the tour they found a place to sit, Stahl took off his jacket and tie and turned up the cuffs of his shirt, while Kiki slipped out of her embroidered jacket. ‘It’s from Schiaparelli,’ she told a woman who asked. Mildly abstract nudes seemed to be the artist’s favoured style. One of which, a few feet from where Stahl and Kiki sat – on a love seat obviously rescued from a fire – had a face Stahl recognized. There was Kiki de Saint-Ange, lying languorous and seductive on a sofa, a ‘Naked Maja’ that imitated the Goya painting. ‘I see you keep looking at that,’ she said, teasing him. ‘It’s not a bad likeness, though I seem to have been grey-green that afternoon.’
They called him ‘Fredric’, the men and women getting drunk together on strong, sour wine poured from ceramic jugs, smoking up the host’s hashish,
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